


Heatwave

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and the heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heatwave

He is soaked, absolutely soaked to the skin with sweat; can feel it pooling on his body everywhere it can collect and the sun is beating down relentlessly. They should have cancelled the picnic, the games, but the ladies are all in light frocks and the gentlemen are in their shirt sleeves and are sitting under pavilions sipping cool drinks. It's all right for them.

But for the staff, there is no relief from the heavy uniforms, walking back and forth from the kitchen to the lawn and they are all faint with it, miserable; he had sent Alfred inside to rest when he saw the boy going pale with the heat. It can't be helped, he supposes, the work doesn't end just because it's warm out.

Thankfully, the party drifts inside and he lets Thomas attend them as he is still fairly fresh and put together and presentable for the upstairs. Carson wipes sweat from his face with his wrist, begins to tiredly collect plates, glasses, napkins. He can see Elsie doing the same on the other side.

She has to be sweltering in that black dress, he thinks, has to be absolutely burning up in all of those skirts and corset and underthings, but she tiredly soldiers on, the same as him, getting it done, not complaining, and she looks up, meets his eyes, gives a weary smile.

He feels dizzy suddenly, weak in the legs, his field of vision narrowing and he shoves his handful of stemware back onto the table, grips the edge, pulls at his tie that seems very tight suddenly, and she is there, of course she is, she is always there when he needs her and she is leading him away, taking him away from all of the close tables and heavy tablecloths, leading him under a nearby shade tree.

"Sit down, Mr. Carson, sit down. It's this heat, you've done too much, you're too hot." She presses him back, urges him to sit, and he does, sits carefully on the grass in the blessed shade and tilts his head back, pulls his jacket off, his vest. Closes his eyes, can hear her bustle off quickly and she returns with water, with a clean napkin.

"You have got to be boiling in all of that livery, just sit here and rest." She gives him the water to drink and he sips slowly, carefully, tries to wave away her concern but she's having none of it. Takes the glass away, carefully pours some over the napkin. Kneels down next to him and begins dabbing at his brow. He wants to fuss, to not appear so stupid and old and weak in front of her, her of all people, but he is so very hot and it's so good to sit in the shade for a minute.

So good to let her tend to him.

He doesn't resist, then, when her fingers carefully slip loose his tie, smooth the ribbon down flat, when they undo his first two buttons, when the backs of her knuckles graze the skin of his throat. Doesn't resist when she pulls the cuff links off, rolls his sleeves up, exposes his forearms. He is passive in her hands now.

He does not speak, she doesn't.

The cloth is dampened again and she is wiping his cheeks, his neck, slipping the cloth under his collar. At some point one of the maids bestirs herself to approach them, to ask if everything is all right. Elsie assures here that it is, that Mr. Carson just has a touch of sunstroke, that he'll be right as rain in just a few minutes.

At some point, she has him lie down, eases his head into her lap. She cools his hands with the cloth, his wrists, wipes it gently over and over on the pulse points. The redness has left his face, his skin isn't so hot now, but still she traces the cloth over him. Slides it under the opening in his shirt.

He doesn't push her away, doesn't insist that he's better. Just lets her lap cradle him and keeps his eyes closed, inhales the occasional breeze that breaks up the heat. Lets himself feel the soft satin of her skirt against his cheek, doesn't let himself focus on the strong thigh it covers. The sun must have sank a bit in the sky, he thinks, because it is cooler, less bright behind his eyelids.

She circles the cloth over his hands again, between the fingers, presses it into the palms. Her cool fingers push the collar and placket of his shirt back, widen the opening, causing another button or two to slip their stays. He exhales when her fingertips brush the light scattering of hair she has exposed. He doesn't open his eyes. Perhaps if he doesn't, perhaps if they don't look at one another, they can ignore what her fingers are doing, maybe they can not pay attention to the way he rubs his cheek slowly against her leg.

Her fingers slowly, so slowly, stroke the fine silver hairs, comb over them delicately and he breathes in fresh air, cooler now, cooler as the lovely fingertips hesitantly creep under damp cotton to splay against his pectoral, to press against the firm muscles there. She doesn't speak, he doesn't. The only speech is that of those slim fingers moving slowly and curiously, how they curl in a slight jerk of surprise when she touches his nipple but then immediately straighten and begin to lovingly explore that flat small circumference of tender skin, how her nails lightly toy with the sensitive tip.

Her hips shift minutely beneath his head, move in an almost imperceptible little motion, and then her hand is withdrawing and Elsie is slowly buttoning his shirt, clearing her throat.

He opens his eyes and she pushes the hair from his forehead where it has fallen in unruly curls and they sit there together, unmoving. She gazes out over the lawn, he searches in the branches of the tree above them.

A fast flush of heat, a long slow cool. This is what they are, this is what they'll always be.


End file.
